Thewater separating Belle Isle from the mainland seems to dance. It shimmers andshakes, flares up and falls, shudders and shivers – a constantly movingcorridor of blue. Its restlessness is a tribute to the currents that competewithin it. Immediately to the east, Lake St Clair is visible, a wide expanse ofapparently endless resources. The river takes what it needs and scurries 28miles south-west, to the point where it pours into Lake Erie. As it goes, itcasts a glance at the leafy island park – with its clustered picnic tables andwooded paths – idling in mid-stream. It gazes, too, at the Canadian town ofWindsor, on its far shore. And it stares briefly at the skyscrapers on its nearbank, as the reflection of downtown Detroit flickers on its surface.

Detroit,
the most famous name on the map of Michigan, is many things: a city tarred with
a reputation for decline and decay; a fascinating metropolis in which many of
the triumphs and woes of America's turbulent 20th century played out in
microcosm; a pocket of culture where opera and art wait to surprise visitors; a
musical giant whose streets have cradled everything from the soft soul of
Motown and John Lee Hooker's smoky blues to Eminem's enraged rap.

But,
perhaps most intriguingly, Detroit is a city framed by water – which makes it a
fine starting grid for a tour of the Great Lakes region. True, Chicago is a
more obvious launchpad for such a journey, but Detroit offers closer access to
the elements of this liquid-laced realm: Lakes St Clair and Erie on its
doorstep, connected by the Detroit river; the gargantuan Lake Huron, which
broods majestically 60 miles to the north-east.

Beyond,
Michigan spreads north for 400 miles, increasingly quiet and rural as it goes.
Appropriately, the state's name is based on the indigenous Ojibwe word
mishigama – which translates as "large water".

My plan
is to sample as much scenery as possible. So, after two days amid the ghostly
Art Deco buildings that sing of Detroit's rich past, I flit into the genteel
eastern suburbs, where Lake St Clair gnaws at Grosse Pointe, before filtering
south-west – Interstate 75 never straying too far from the river – to Pointe
Mouillee, where Lake Erie throws its weight against this wetland enclave and
geese dart into the heavens. From here, I have two choices – the easiest being
to spin north in search of Lake Huron. But I am drawn to the idea of following
the traditional direction of US exploration and heading west – not least
because this will bring me into contact with an American icon.

Lake
Michigan makes a claim none of its colleagues can match. This huge, swollen
finger prodding into the flesh of Wisconsin, Illinois and Indiana is the only
member of the Great Lakes that sits entirely within the USA. It's a road-trip
paradise. And its east and north shores are devoted to its state namesake,
which decorates the waterline with small towns and calm. Nor is it difficult to
find this pastoral prospect. Detroit does not protest as I leave, fading in the
mirror as I pass through its attractive neighbour Dearborn (where the Henry
Ford museum details the city's enduring relationship with the car), and
vanishing completely as I cut across the state on Interstate 94, farms at the
roadside, horses grazing. Near the splendidly christened university city of
Kalamazoo, the river of the same name coils around Highway 89 – a ribbon of
asphalt that delivers me back to the water.

Pitched
almost on the sand, Grand Haven tempers the vastness of Lake Michigan with a
classic display of small-town America. The Harbor House Inn, where I flop
gratefully to sleep, has rocking chairs on its veranda and cinnamon-heavy
muffins for breakfast. The main drag of Washington Avenue is alive with cafés
and quaint stores. And on North Harbor Drive, the Wet Mitten Surf Shop caters
to those who want to ride the lake's waves. It is a misty, reluctant day as I
amble into Grand Haven State Park and spy three hardy souls, boards poised,
assessing the situation. I discover a less-chilly alternative. Rosy Mound
National Area throws out a mile-long trail that drifts down to the lake through
thickly forested dunes. Angry gusts punch at the land, to the shaken discomfort
of every outraged branch – but to no obvious concern from the hikers I meet on
the way. "Good morning," rings the greeting with each encounter. In
weather terms it isn't – but the vibe is cheerful.

From
Grand Haven, Highway 31 flirts with the lake as it slides north, doling out
parcels of the pristine and pretty. At Ludington, a lone lighthouse is
assaulted by spray. At the state park, further dunes are piled next to the beach,
granting me another chance for a blustery stroll. Highway 22 shadows the water
so closely that signs warn to "watch for drifted sand". And the road
seems to heed the message, climbing steeply north of Arcadia, then providing
drivers with a viewpoint that showcases what might be the entire shoreline in
all its tree-swarmed magnificence. The lake, though, is unmoved – featureless
to the horizon.

This
sharp ascent begins a trend. Outside the hamlet of Empire, Sleeping Bear Dunes
National Lakeshore daubs the canvas with drama, its knolls of sand convinced
they are hillsides, some topping 400ft in height. In places, this pale realm of
slopes and slants feels thrillingly remote – a mood the lake does nothing to
dispel. Though this is one of its narrowest portions, it is still 60 miles west
to the Door Peninsula, on Wisconsin's opposite bank. I feel lost on the lip of
an inland ocean.

Civilisation
reasserts itself in Traverse City, a warm glow emanating from the shops on
Front Street as the town nestles at the bottom of Grand Traverse Bay. Here, the
31 picks me up, and carries me 60 miles along the edge of the inlet to Petoskey
– a place whose rough-hewn charm and bayside setting enchanted that eternal
fisherman Ernest Hemingway, who spent childhood holidays here and later
celebrated it in writing. My target, though, lies 35 miles further north.
Mackinaw City is a gateway, perched on the Straits of Mackinac, where lakes
Michigan and Huron mingle, their coming together akin to two superpowers
holding a summit, a cold front clashing beneath the Mackinaw Bridge.

This
green-grey behemoth – a lesser-known cousin of San Francisco's Golden Gate Bridge
– will later ferry me onward into the wilderness of Michigan's Upper Peninsula.
But first there is a ferry of a different sort, a 16-minute boat jaunt of bumps
and bounces that drops me at Mackinac Island – a nugget of land that lurks on
the Lake Huron side of the Straits.

Here, the
past intrudes on the present. The 18th-century Fort Mackinac eyes the channel –
as does the wooden bulk of the Grand Hotel, a 19th-century dame that clings to
its ended era. And yet, although cars are prohibited here, the island has
something in common with Detroit. The water that surrounds it seems to dance.
Perhaps it is doing its duty, tipping its hat to the magnitude of its location,
where two Great Lakes butt heads. Or perhaps, like much of the rest of
Michigan, it is simply aware of its own beauty, and happy with it.